


Chilly

by insistentbass



Series: Festive Flings [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Eve, Divorce, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Fake Character Death, Feelings, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27905125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: 'He’s never seen Sherlock drink before. Of all his vices, alcohol doesn’t seem to be one them, but there’s something about the way he presses the glass to his lips and the wet that lingers there afterwards that makes Greg’s stomach burn.'
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Festive Flings [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042989
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	Chilly

**Author's Note:**

> Number three in the Advent 2020 challenge. 
> 
> Again, a little longer than intended. Seems I am incapable of sticking to the traditional ficlet length. I don't write this character pairing often either, so be kind! 
> 
> Set at some point during the five years before John comes along. Definite pre-slash/implied feelings. I don't know why most of my fics end in some angsty summary, I apologise. Poor Greg.
> 
> B x

Greg scrubs a hand over his face. It’s been another long day, and that last back and forth with Donovan had been the icing on a particularly shitty cake. It’s Christmas eve, so he let everyone go early, using the excuse to gain an hour or so of silence before heading home to another argument.

He pushes in the code that opens the bottom drawer of his desk. Amid the personal affects and security badges sits a glass and a small bottle of cheap whisky. Greg pours himself a few fingers and sits back in his squeaky office chair.

Just as he brings the glass to his lips, the security light down the hall flickers on and the door kicks open. Sherlock Holmes strides down the corridor towards him, ridiculous coat flapping behind him, all wind ruffled hair and drama.

“Oi, you can’t just burst in here!”

Greg’s protest is ignored as the man enters through his office door. He shivers, the office heating is already off and a fresh breeze of cold air filters through as Sherlock glides in.

“How did you even get into the building –“

“Don’t be so dim” Sherlock replies, throwing one of Greg’s security passes onto his desk.

Brilliant. Another to add to the drawer. Greg rolls his eyes and downs the whisky in one. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him but makes no verbal comment on his obviously worsening drinking habits. Small mercies, Greg thinks.

“What do you want, anyway?” His voice is roughed with the alcohol, and he watches as the consulting detective begins to rifle through his filing cabinets uninvited.

“I need to see the dossier on Adams, there’s something missing and the clue may be in his past dealings with the casino owner – Where is it?”

Sherlock seems tense, his tone clipped. Must be off the cigs again. Greg wants to rake fingers through his hair, smooth down those curls the winter air has displaced.

“Donovan took it, she had the same idea as you, actually”

He grins as Sherlock’s face turns even more sour, lip curling at the mention of his favourite Scotland Yard employee. The drawer snaps loudly as Sherlock shoves it closed again, making an angry noise in the back of his throat.

“Pour me one”

For a second Greg doesn’t comprehend, the amber liquid already warming his insides and allowing his mind to wander. Sherlock is like a tall mysterious ghost in the night, chilling but not entirely unwelcome. He’s cut just right in the low light, sharp angles and dangerous shadow and it doesn’t count as cheating, if he just looks.

“I’ve only got one glass” He says meekly, eyes caught in the movement of Sherlock’s neck as he swallows.

“Fine – “

With that Sherlock snatches the glass from him, unscrews the whisky and pours out far too much. The man takes a huge swig, eyes crinkling as it burns his throat. He pushes the half empty vessel back under Greg’s nose, long arm outstretched across his desk.

“Cheers” Greg says, and takes just as big a mouthful.

They go on like this several more times, Greg refilling the glass more generously each time it empties. He’s never seen Sherlock drink before. Of all his vices, alcohol doesn’t seem to be one them, but there’s something about the way he presses the glass to his lips and the wet that lingers there afterwards that makes Greg’s stomach burn.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Sherlock announces, as if the tacky tinsel and sad looking tree in the corner does not make that obvious. “Shouldn’t you be – Fraternising, somewhere”

Sherlock waves a hand in the air as if he has no idea what he’s talking about. Greg fancies he probably doesn’t. He’s always imagined Sherlock sitting at Baker Street alone at Christmas, perfectly still and rigid behind a microscope, completely unaware of the significance of the day.

Greg thinks about his wife in their small living room, wrapping last minute presents and likely already formulating their next disagreement. He’s been working too much, bringing a lot of it home without meaning to. She goes out too often and he always forgets to ask where she’s been.

“Yeah, well. You know me,” He brings the bottle to his lips, too impatient now to wait for Sherlock to take a drink. “Work is my second wife”

“And where is the first one, tonight?”

Sherlock has never asked about his private life before. Granted, he probably doesn’t need to. The state of his marriage is probably written in the way he wears his tie slightly wonky, or the fact he hasn’t shaved for a couple of days, or the dark skin under his eyes from disturbed sleep. Greg thinks about not answering the question, but the allure that Sherlock wants to know things about _him_ , not just work, is too appealing.

“Home. I think – Probably”

The way Sherlock looks down at the glass in his hand tells Greg that maybe she isn’t at home fighting with wrapping paper at all. To be honest, he hasn’t checked in with her all day. Perhaps laziness, but more likely because he doesn’t want to know what she’s actually doing. Or who.

“Anyway, I’m sure she’s having fun without me”

The bitterness there is clear. He catches Sherlock’s eye and for a moment sees a glint of what could be sympathy, in the right light. It makes Greg feel a little sick.

“Perhaps you should have some fun of your own, then”

Greg does his best not to choke on his drink. Maybe he should start slipping whisky into Sherlock’s tea, because he never does this – it’s never personal, always business, and Greg feels like he’s being allowed to see a side of the man that no one else can.

“Sherlock Holmes, never thought I’d hear you say that”

He laughs around the rim of the bottle, taking another swig without letting his eyes leave Sherlock’s. Those long limbs are perched on the edge of his desk now, one gangly leg folded and hooked under his other, planted on the floor for support. At some point Sherlock must have taken his scarf off, Greg is actively avoiding the triangle of skin exposed by his open collar.

“Well, I’m sure some people find you… Attractive” The deep rumble of Sherlock’s voice is intoxicating, the slight slur there from the buzz of alcohol even more so.

“Some people” Greg repeats, almost a question but not quite.

He snatches the glass back purely for something to do, but his grip shakes a little as he tries to empty the last of the bottle. Sherlock reaches out with deft fingers, stills his wrist and curls a palm over Greg’s to steady his pour.

“Don’t want to waste cheap scotch, detective”

Greg’s lips part and he must look slightly ridiculous, open and plain to read. Doesn’t take a genius to work out why his pulse is skipping through his veins, the tremor of it visible. For the last time he takes some of the drink, hoping the sting of it will take away the temptation building in his bones. If he really tries hard, he can taste a bit of Sherlock on the glass, the smallest stain of his mouth.

Several seconds pass where all he does is watch Sherlock finish the whisky, his gaze never leaving Greg’s own. This tension between them has never happened before, yet it feels like it’s always been there, softly humming away in the background. Suddenly he comes to the realisation that it would be incredibly easy to take Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth. Easy, and allowed, because Sherlock clearly wants him to.

Although his wife won’t be his wife for much longer, Greg still wants to try. Cannot bring himself to push Sherlock against the desk and throw his stupid coat on the floor like he wants to. Too many complications there, too much to lose. Not only his marriage, but this precious gift of a man sitting on his desk, a man much more fragile than he thinks he is.

“Well, looks like we’re out” Greg clears his throat and pushes up from his chair.

Sherlock looks down, rolls his lips together for a moment like he wants to protest, but doesn’t. All at once he’s pulled together again, standing perfectly straight and neat and stoic, as if the last hour never happened.

“Merry Christmas, Lestrade”

With that, Greg watches him leave. Swift and easy, no hint of the weight in him that Greg now carries in his own gut, the heaviness of something that could have happened but did not.

Reaching for his coat, he notices a length of soft blue fabric hidden behind a stack of papers on his desk. Sherlock’s scarf.

“Sherlock!” Greg calls after him, running to catch up with the man moments before he disappears behind the exit door.

Sherlock turns and looks him up and down. Those lips Greg wants nothing more than to taste, curl into a small knowing smile.

“Keep it” Sherlock says, pupils inky and dilated. “It’s chilly outside”

Then he’s gone, and Greg is left standing in the deserted corridor, wondering what the hell just happened, and knowing it will never happen again.

//

When Greg sees Sherlock a few days later, at the scene of a particularly gnarly murder, he wears an exact copy of the scarf sitting in his desk drawer.

Neither of them mention it again, but from time to time he takes it from that secret spot and just stares at it. Occasionally runs the expensive fabric through his hands, the threads punctuated with the smell of Sherlock’s aftershave. In the back of his head, Greg knows the gift was purposeful, that he’s part of some game he has no control over.

When Sherlock dies, Greg opens another bottle of whisky in his office and consumes the entirety of it.

There’s no wife to wonder about anymore, no moral barrier to overcome. There’s just a redundant length of wool, secreted away, waiting for its owner to return. Greg drinks, and waits with it.


End file.
